


A Matter of Blood

by lacking



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bullying, Canonical Character Death, Family Drama, Family Feels, Gen, Growing Up, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacking/pseuds/lacking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fili and Kili grow up in the shadow of what their lives could have been. Thorin comes and goes and matters more than he means to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bedtime stories

**Author's Note:**

> An additional, far less interesting sounding summary: A series of snippets detailing moments of Fili and Kili's life/relationship with Thorin at different ages. Part one focuses on their childhood, part two on their adolescent years (note: from what I've gathered Dwarves don't come of age until they hit 40, so these adolescent years will have quite the stretch).

Fili is four years old and _Thorin_ is a name that he doesn’t know. _Uncle_ is only someone Mama tells stories of, someone she speaks to Daddy about in hushed, worried tones. _Uncle_ is important and _Uncle_ is never there. Mama says he’s busy because he’s a king, and Fili doesn’t understand what that means but knows that it matters because it makes Mama’s eyes turn glassy and sad even when her voices hardens with pride.

Fili doesn’t remember that on his second birthday he was greeted by a dwarf with blue eyes and dark, thick hair like Mama. The dwarf scooped Fili up into his arms, bounced him on his knee, and Fili had cried and cried. He wanted his Father and not this stranger with his short, bristling beard and rough hands, who smelt of smoke and grass and pine and not of Mama’s cooking at all. 

The dwarf huffed out a low chuckle against Fili’s white-gold hair before setting him back down. He kneeled, took out a small, wooden horse from beneath his heavy cloak, and trotted it back and forth across the floor until Fili forgot to be afraid.

 

When Kili is six his brother begins to tell him stories. Not all of them are true, and Kili knows this, but doesn’t see why it’s really important. Fili is eleven, and as far as Kili is concerned his brother knows everything. Except for when he doesn’t, but that’s why Mama and Daddy are there, too. 

The house they live in is very small and so Kili and Fili share a bedroom. Kili thinks that this bothers Fili sometimes, but Kili is fine with it. He likes, even, enjoys the comfort of knowing that his brother is close by in the dark even if Kili can’t see him properly. 

From his bed, Fili tells Kili that they were supposed to live inside a mountain as princes, tucked away in a house of steel and stone with riches piled to the ceiling. They would both have their own rooms that would be the size of their house and yard together, and go to sleep at night beneath fur-lined blankets knitted with gold and silver threads. 

“How do you know?” Kili asks, his voice stretching into a whine. He loves his brother and doesn’t ever want Fili to stop talking, not really, but he hates never being the first to know something, that Fili tells him these things like they’re secrets because no one else bothers with telling Kili anything at all. 

Fili says, “I heard Dad and Balin talking about it.”

Balin knows even more than both Mama and Daddy. He’s teaching Kili his letters and numbers and pushes thick, leather-bound books beneath Fili’s nose whenever he visits.

Kili asks, “Why don’t we live there anymore?” 

“A dragon attacked, so everyone had to leave. He’s going to kill it, though.”

“Who?”

“Our _uncle_ , stupid.”

“Oh.”

There is a shaft of moonlight falling across Fili’s pillow, so Kili can see it when Fili rolls his eyes.

“He visited a long time ago. You probably can’t even remember.”

“Yes I do!”

“Uh huh. It’s okay. He’ll come back again.”

“After he slays the dragon?”

“Maybe.”

 

Twelve years old and Fili is holding Kili’s hand, hiding in the hallway. He peeks through the crack in the door and tells his brother to hush as Kili whines and tugs at his arm.

He knows the name Thorin now, has known it since he was five and his Uncle appeared in the front doorway one morning, shrugging off the pack slung over his shoulder and looking down at Fili as he shrunk away and tried to disappear behind his Mother’s leg.

Thorin ate breakfast at the table while Mother scrubbed Fili’s face clean and combed his hair. Usually, she did these kinds of things in the water-closet or bedroom, but she didn’t seem to want to part from her brother just then. He talked very little, asking Mother short questions about her life and family, how her pregnancy was coming along. The conversation only lulled for a moment when Mother paused and turned her attention to the tangle of hair behind Fili’s ear. 

“I’ve never heard of a heir of Durin with yellow hair,” Thorin mused.

Mother finished combing through the knot and began on knitting another braid. “There hasn’t been,” she said. “There was an old book Grandfather used to keep, a worn, dusty thing. Frerin and I took a look once. It described all the great families, their heritage and features. Durin’s line has always looked –well. Like us.”

Thorin hummed, his gaze falling on Fili. “Until now.”

Fili shifted, nervous (had he done something wrong?), but Mother patted his cheek. 

She said, “He takes after his Father, my handsome boy,” and it made Fili feel a little better. 

Fili knows his uncle as a stranger. He knows that Thorin expects something of him but not _what_ , and that despite Thorin’s distance, his hard voice and apathetic eyes, Fili wants his approval, admiring Thorin in the same manner that dwarves marvel at mountains. 

“What’s going on?” Kili asks.

Fili squeezes his hand and doesn’t answer.

A large, bald dwarf drags Thorin from the door towards the table, specks of blood trailing across the kitchen floor behind them. Father is pushing aside the remaining dinner plates to make room as Balin gathers bandages and begins digging through the drawers, searching for needle and thread. 

Mother is asking, “What happened?”

It’s the large dwarf that answers her. “We were caught up in an Orc raid near Dunland upon our return.”

Mother crosses her arms. “And the arrow?”

The dwarf shrugs. “Your brother’s fault for moving too slowly.”

“He was just quick enough, I think,” Balin says. “The arrow would have pierced his neck instead of his shoulder if he hadn’t moved.”

“I’m still in the room,” Thorin growls.

Mother’s lips press into a thin line. She looks towards the door.

“Fili,” she says. Both Fili and Kili jump. “Fili, come here, darling. Get a large bowl and boil some water for your uncle.”

Fili doesn’t move.

“Fili.”

Kili pushes at his back. “Mom wants you,” he whispers, as though Fili hasn’t heard. Fili swallows hard, and goes.

The dwarf at Thorin’s back has gripped the shaft of the arrow, one hand tucked beneath the black fletching. He leans his weight against it, and Thorin slams his open palm down to the table, nails scraping against the soft wood. The large dwarf grunts and presses his hand to the back of Thorin’s neck. 

“Stay still, would you?”

Thorin spits out a word that Fili isn’t allowed to use. The other dwarf laughs. 

Balin moves next to them, carefully drawing a knife through the already ruined fabric of Thorin’s tunic. “It must be wedged against the bone.”

“Could you cut it out?” Father asks. Balin shakes his head.

“I haven’t the skill. He would bleed more. Scar more. The muscle could be damaged worse.”

From between gritted teeth, Thorin says, “Just drive it through and be done with it.”

The large dwarf pats the back of his head. “Trying.”

Mother shoots the dwarf a murderous look, and he shrinks back. She ducks away to find something buried beneath the cupboards, and returns with a large, brown bottle.

Thorin lifts his head, eyeing her, and sighs. 

“Clench your teeth, Thorin,” she says, uncorking the bottle and pouring the amber liquid inside over his shoulder.

Fili nearly drops the kettle when Thorin chokes and pounds his forehead hard against the tabletop. Outside the door, Kili whimpers.

Father looks at Mother. She nods at him and he leaves the room. Fili listens as the door creaks open, as Father asks Kili, “Now now, what are you doing out of bed?” like he’s actually curious about what the answer could be. 

“Careful now, lad,” Balin says. He steadies the kettle in Fili’s hands but doesn’t try to take it from him.

“I’m fine,” Fili says. He rolls back his shoulders and tips up his chin. Balin raises both of his eyebrows, lifting his hands away. 

“Well, no offense meant,” he says. Fili smiles before taking the kettle to fire. He stays put close to the hearth, standing by it quietly and hoping that if he doesn’t make a sound he won’t be sent off to bed along with his brother.

Thorin is shoving the larger dwarf away and asking for the bottle. When Mother holds it out he snatches it from her hand and drinks for a long time.

“Thorin,” Balin says, touching his elbow.

Thorin pulls the bottle away, gasping. The liquid inside sloshes against the glass. “I was thirsty.”

“All right,” Mother says, but she takes the bottle back and sets outside of Thorin’s reach.

“Dwalin.” Thorin braces one hand against the table, the other hanging uselessly at his side. “Get on with it.” 

Thorin doesn’t scream, but Fili knows that he must want to. His Uncle’s face had reddened slightly from the drink, but when the larger dwarf –Dwalin– pushes against the arrow, all the colour drains from Thorin’s cheeks. His jaw clenches tight and he keeps blinking, like he's trying to stop himself from closing his eyes. And when Thorin shudders, when he makes a sound like he’s choking and bares his teeth, Fili can’t stop himself from turning away.

He hears it when the arrowhead is pushed through, the soft, wet pop it makes. When Fili looks back Thorin is staring at him through the tangled curtain of hair around his face. He twitches when Balin snips the head of the arrow from the shaft, curling his fingers against the table into a fist. It makes his hand seem steadier, but his entire arm begins trembling instead.

Fili pretends not to notice.

 

The same night, Kili can’t sleep. 

Father tucks him into bed and stays with him, stroking his hair and offering Kili short, vague answers when he questions just what’s going on in the kitchen.

“But who was that?” Kili asks.

Father starts laughing.

“Dad!”

“That was Thorin, Kili. Your Mother’s older brother.”

Mother enters the room with Fili not long after. Kili thinks his brother looks too pale, but maybe it’s just the lighting. Mother cups Fili’s face in her hands and kisses his hair, and Fili doesn’t wrinkle his nose or pretend not to like it as he usually does. He just stands there, arms at his side, ducking his face into Mother’s shoulder a little more before she pulls away. 

When Mother and Father leave and the door closes, Fili climbs out of his bed. He goes to Kili’s instead, curling up beside him and stealing most of the blankets, turning his back towards his brother as he settles.

“What happened?” Kili asks.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Was that our Uncle?”

“Go to sleep, Kili.”

“But was it? Dad said--”

“ _Yes_. Now go to sleep.”

Kili tries to. He does. But his pillow is too lumpy and his feet are cold. He presses them up against the back of Fili’s calves, waiting for a response, but Fili just mumbles and buries his face further into his pillow.

When Fili’s breathing slows, Kili scoots down to the edge off the bed so he can hop off the mattress without having to climb over his brother. He tip toes across the room, stepping around the floorboards that will creak beneath his weight. 

It doesn’t take long for him to find his Uncle. Thorin is still awake, sitting in the armchair in the living room. He’s staring into the fire, eyes half-lidded and smoke drifting lazily from his mouth. There’s a pipe in his hand but the smell it omits is different from Father’s pipe-weed, stronger and more heady, the air so thick with it that Kili can nearly taste it on the back of his tongue.

Kili steps in front of him, putting himself between his Uncle and the hearth, and Thorin blinks.

“I’m Kili,” Kili says.

Thorin’s mouth shifts behind his beard. 

“I know who you are.”

“Fili says that I already know you, too, but I don’t remember.”

“You were very small when I was last here.” Thorin pauses, tilting his head. “Small _er_.”

Kili straightens his spine. “Mom says that I’m taller than Fili was at my age.”

Thorin eyes him, and Kili rushes on before he can question it.

“Are you still hurt?”

“Less so, now.” Thorin pats his own shoulder, and Kili notices the bandages peeking out beneath the collar of his worn shirt. “You were standing outside the door?”

Kili nods.

“Were you frightened?”

“No!”

Again, Thorin’s mouth twitches. 

He takes the bit of the pipe between his teeth and holds out both of his hands. Kili steps within his reach, and Thorin is gentle enough when he lifts him about the waist, wincing just slightly around the eye. He hoists Kili up and tucks him into the space between his side and the arm of the chair, shifting a little as he pulls the blanket off his lap. 

Kili says, “Are you tired?”

“No. But you are.”

“No I’m not.”

Thorin tosses the blanket over Kili, tugging it up to his chin. 

“I’m _not_ ,” Kili whines.

“As you’ve said.”

“Can you tell me a story?”

“I don’t know very many stories.”

“All grownups know stories. And Fili. He knows stories, too.”

Thorin snorts. “And what stories does your brother tell you?”

“He talks about the books he reads and tells me about men and trolls and the lonely mountain.”

“Erebor.”

Kili nods. “Are you really a king?”

“I have no throne.”

“Does that mean no?” 

There’s no mistaking Thorin’s smile now, with Kili sitting so close beside him. But even so, he looks sad, something in the slant of his lips, the soft flicker in his eyes. When he speaks again his voice is low, like he’s telling Kili a secret.

“I’m not certain what it means,” Thorin says.

Thorin doesn’t tell him a story. But when Kili starts to fidget Thorin sighs and hums a quiet, slow tune around the mouth of his pipe, one that’s only broken by a low chuckle when Kili nestles closer against his uncle’s arm.

 

Father dies less than a month later. 

It’s an accident. He’s working in the mines and a stupid man removes the wrong stone at the wrong time and the entire cavern tumbles down on top of them.

Mother cries, and Fili thinks it’s the worse thing he’s ever seen –his Mother sitting at the table, hunched over with her face buried in her hands. She screams and destroys her bedroom, throws a vase at Thorin’s head that he catches and sets down onto the floor.

She sleeps for days and it’s Thorin who begins waking Fili and Kili in the morning. He cooks food and keeps them dressed, pushes his nephews out the door to play with sticks while Dwalin and Balin watch from the front porch. Sometimes, Fili sees Thorin rubbing at his shoulder, sees him reaching for things high up in the cupboards and then have to stop. Dwalin makes a show of plucking something off the top shelf of the pantry when Thorin can’t, and Fili thinks Thorin would have smacked him for it if Kili hadn’t laughed. 

There’s an afternoon that Fili goes outside and finds Mother and his Uncle sitting together on the porch. Mother is crying again but smiling though it. She tells Fili to come and he sits on a lower step as she braids his hair. She asks Thorin questions, about his work and his travels, about things he and their brother did when they were younger, asking for stories that she undoubtedly already knows.

Thorin answers her again and again, patient and thorough. Fili has never heard his Uncle speak so much. When Mother comes up short on the beads for Fili’s hair Thorin snorts and says _here_ , loosening one of his braids and passing her the metal bead from the end. 

Father is buried in the ground. Fili knows from the books he reads that were they still in Erebor, Father’s body would have been stored in a special room until his skin rotted off. Afterwards, his bones would have be dried and polished and then moved to a crypt where all of those belonding to the line of Durin have been put to rest. Father was not of noble birth, but he married one of the few dwarf-women to ever directly descend from Durin, and the King-to-be named both of his sons as heirs. He would have been considered worthy of a finer resting place then a shallow hole in the ground.

Fili tries not to think of these things, but can’t seem to stop himself. He stares very hard at his shoes and takes Mother’s hand when she offers it.

The day after, Fili wants to be alone. He hides from Kili and avoids Dwalin. He climbs a tall tree behind their house with thick branches and yellowing leaves, pulling himself up as high as he can until the wind grows strong and the branches begin to thin.

Thorin finds him in the afternoon, but acts like he hasn’t. He stands beneath the tree, packing his pipe instead of calling out to Fili. 

Fili drops down branch after branch. A few leaves flutter after him, one catching in his hair as another drifts onto Thorin’s shoulder. 

Fili asks, “Where’s Kili?”

Thorin picks up the leaf by the stem, twisting it back and forth between two fingers. 

“With Balin.”

“He’s okay?”

“He’s young. It will be easier for him.”

Fili isn’t sure if that’s true. Kili had cried when they placed Father into the ground.

“Can I try smoking?” Fili asks.

Thorin exhales, white-blue smoke billowing around his head. He looks up for the first time, shadows and sunlight shifting across his face. He has to rock onto the tips of his toes in order to hand Fili the pipe.

Fili holds it by the bowl and puts the end between his teeth. He inhales like he’s gasping for breath, and nearly drops the pipe when he starts coughing the smoke back out.

“Perhaps too young yet,” Thorin says. He leans his back against the tree, still looking up. It’s hard to tell just by the shape of his mouth if he’s smiling or not, but his voice has grown warm. 

Fili wipes at his watering eyes with his sleeve. “Can I try again?”

“Mm. Softer inhale, this time.”

Fili takes the advice. He still coughs, but he can breathe through them this time, and the hacking doesn’t leave his throat feeling raw and scratchy.

“Better,” Thorin says, and waves Fili off when he tries to pass the pipe back.

“Keep it. I carved it for you.”

“Oh.”

“Will you come down?”

“Um,” Fili twirls the pipe between in his hands, and quickly reorients it when a scattering of ash spills from the bowl. “Do I have to?”

Thorin takes a step away from the trunk and turns around. “I could climb up.” 

He says this seriously, his expression flat. And for the first time in days, Fili wants to smile.

“Your shoulder—” Fili says.

“—Is fine.” Thorin grips the lowest branch and hauls himself upwards with ease. He moves slowly, carefully, testing his weight against new each branch before pushing on. The wood cracks and creaks as he goes, but nothing breaks and Thorin doesn’t fall. He settles on a branch sitting parallel to Fili’s, facing him. 

“I’ll be leaving soon,” Thorin tells him, ducking his head to catch Fili’s eye. “Within the week. Your Mother—”

“I’ll take care of her,” Fili says. “That’s my job now, right? Her and Kili.”

“Balin and Dwalin will be staying awhile yet.”

“But still.”

Thorin quiets for a moment, studying Fili’s face. Whatever he finds there seems to satisfy him, and he offers his Fili a slow nod. “But still.”

“You really—” Fili’s throat nearly closes around the words, but Thorin lifts his eyebrows and cants his head and waits, so Fili is forced to finish. “You really can’t stay?”

“There is not enough work in these parts.”

“Oh.”

“Were things different…” Thorin rubs the back of his hand across his brow. He laughs a little, a low chuckle that beats against his throat. The sound isn’t a happy one, and no smile touches his mouth. “Well, they would be very different indeed.” 

Fili isn’t sure what to make of that. He shifts on his branch, kicking his foot out a little. The toe of his boot taps lightly against Thorin’s. 

“Okay,” Fili says.

 

Thorin leaves, and over a year passes before he returns. He departs with an axe slung over his shoulder and a full sack of supplies heavy on his back. He presses a kiss into his sister’s hair, crouches down and opens his arms to his nephews. Balin pats his arm and Dwalin tells to take care of himself, since no one else will be around to do it for him. 

When he returns he looks tired and worn. His hair is unwashed and his face lined with dirt and soot, shiny from sweat. He sleeps for nearly two days and doesn’t speak for the third. Dis pushes bowls of food beneath his hands and makes him tea. She dangles a bag of pipe-weed in front of his face and offers it on the condition that he stops moping around her house and goes outside to chop wood for the fire.

“Do you not have sons for that?” Thorin asks, but he sees to the task without any further complaint.

He takes Fili and Kili hunting and is patient, even kind, when Kili is reluctant to gut the rabbit that they catch. He teaches them how to preserve animal skins and salt meat, how to decipher the tracks they find hidden beneath flowers and fallen leaves. He gathers berries and nuts and small mushrooms into his hands, holds his palms out like a plate towards his nephews and says _this is what’s safe to eat._

When Fili goes into Thorin’s room to wake him for breakfast one morning, he learns that Thorin sleeps on the floor with a pillow beneath his head, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his axe. He tells Kili, and then wants to curl up and die when Kili asks Thorin at the table why he doesn’t like beds.

Thorin chews slowly and swallows before answering. 

“They’ve become too comfortable,” he says.

 

Throin goes away and comes back. His beard starts to grey. 

Fili and Kili grow older, and Kili begins to forget about the stories that Fili once whispered to him in the dark.


	2. and the mornings after

Kili is thirteen when he realizes that his brother is better than him at everything. 

It’s not fair. Fili’s had more time to get it right. 

Fili can swing two swords about with ease, his left had just as quick and smart as his right. He can throw knives with pin-point accuracy, side-step blows and strike back with quick spins on the ball of his foot, never losing his balance or toppling over half-way through. Girls from town whisper about his golden hair and bright eyes. His beard is already beginning to grow.

Kili –Kili is not _bad_ with a blade in his hand, but he can only use one. His hair is brown and scraggily and his cheeks are still as smooth and pink as they had been when he was a toddler. He doesn’t look like his Father did but he doesn’t look like Mother either, and the other young dwarves in the area like to crow that he instead resembles one of the common women from Dunland.

Dwalin doesn’t play favourites, but Kili knows that he thinks Fili is the more talented brother. When he visits he brings new practice weapons for them, and while Kili’s only ever gifted with swords, Fili is given knives and spears and axes.

It’s the boys from town who start it. They begin venturing closer and closer to Kili and Fili, and the ice is finally broken when a tall, black-haired child with freckles approaches Kili and asks if he wants to try out his new bow. 

Kili does, and finds for the first time that he is, naturally, very, very good at something.

The younger dwarves that see him whisper or laugh. 

They find Kili weeks later standing near the edge of the woods, a knife in one hand and a long, thin branch from a sapling in the other. They take them from him, breaking the half-finished bow into pieces and throwing the sticks that are meant to be arrows out into the bush. They tug the tips of their own ears into points, asking Kili if he wants to be an elf instead of a dwarf.

That’s when Fili finds them. He hits one of the boys and yells at another. He picks up the broken pieces of Kili’s bow and offers to help him fix it.

Kili shoves his brother. He gathers up the worthless splinters of wood and burns them. 

It takes two months for him to grow bold enough to try again, reading instructions from a book that Balin had left him in secret. 

Thorin visits. He brings Kili and Fili a knife each, the mark of Durin stamped onto the blade just beneath the hilt. Kili asks Thorin if he made them. Fili rolls his eyes and says _obviously_ , but Thorin only nods and sips his tea.

Kili looks between the two knives, trying to spot a difference in quality between them. He expects Fili’s to be better made or more decorated, longer or sharper. Kili knows that Fili is more important to Thorin than he is. Months ago he overheard Thorin and Mother explaining to Fili that he’s Thorin’s direct heir, that if Thorin dies it’s Fili who will be the King next, and not Kili. 

(Not that Kili cares.)

The knives are nearly identical, the only difference resting in the designs stamped into the steel grips. 

Kili tucks the knife into his belt and sneaks away after breakfast. The bow has been ready and waiting for three days now, kept hidden in the forest beneath the underbrush. 

It’s an ugly thing, plain and small. The wood is still rough against Kili’s fingertips and the wire doesn’t have as much give as he would like. But it’s still his, and it’s finished, and Kili’s tightens his fingers around it, so pleased with himself that he could burst with the feeling.

He knows that he should wait, that he should go find his brother or Uncle before he’s missed, but Kili has been itching to shoot another arrow for weeks and he can’t stop now, not with his bow completed and ready in his hand. He already has the shooting range prepared, nothing more than a poorly painted target tacked onto a tree. He can be back within the hour.

The grass is still wet from the morning dew and Kili’s soft boots are soaked by the time he makes it to the small clearing. It’s a long while before Kili can even bring himself to shoot, instead notching the one arrow he has and testing it against the wire again and again. He stares at the target until the rest of the world blurs and darkens, until the rustling leaves fall quiet and he forgets about his chilled toes.

He lowers the bow when the wind picks up enough to jostle his aim, and it’s then that he notices Thorin at the edge of the clearing, settled and sitting on an old tree stump with his elbow hitched up on his knee. 

Thorin says, “Well lad, do you mean to shoot, or stare?”

Kili doesn’t move. He’s gripped with the sudden, mad desire to take the bow and snap it over his own knee.

Thorin crosses his arms. He doesn’t prod or encourage. He doesn’t smile or frown. He looks between Kili and the target, and waits.

Kili licks his lips and lifts the bow, waiting a moment to make sure that Thorin isn’t going to change his mind and protest. When his Uncle remains silent, Kili notches the arrow and lines up the shot. 

Kili swallows. He glances at Thorin, but still, his Uncle neither looks at him nor says anything.

So Kili breathes. He concentrates on the pull of air through his throat, the way it settles in his lungs. He waits for his fluttering heart to still in his chest, focusing on the pinch of wire between his fingers, the soft weight of the arrow against his curled knuckles.

He lets the arrow fly as he exhales, and it lands with a solid _thunk_ at the centre of the target.

Kili turns back to his Uncle with his chin held high, his eyes bright and shining. _Go on,_ he thinks. _Tell me it’s a poor weapon choice, that it’s stupid and wrong. You can tell me that, but you can’t say that I’m not good at it._

Thorin only hums in his throat. He goes to the target and pulls the arrow free before walking back towards Kili, his hand outstretched for the bow. Kili nearly drops it before scrambling to pass it over.

Thorin takes a moment to examine it, testing the string and the give of the wood.

“You made this,” he says.

Kili can hardly speak. “It’s—it’s not very good, I know…”

Thorin frowns at him, but he looks confused, not displeased or angry.

“You _made_ it, Kili,” Thorin says. “Take pride in that.”

Thorin notches the arrow, his eyes narrowing into thin slits as he aims. The shot goes wide, landing towards the left of the target. Something twists tightly in Kili’s chest, something like stunned disappointment mashed up against his own pride. It’s strange, to witness Thorin failing, for Kili to find himself more apt at something –anything, than his strong, worldly Uncle.

“Skill with a bow never came naturally to me,” Thorin says with a slight shrug. He doesn’t seem embarrassed, only resigned. “There was little need for them. Even now, it remains an uncommon weapon for a dwarf to choose.”

“I know,” Kili says.

“But you do?”

“I—?”

“Choose it.”

“… I’m good at it.”

Thorin nods, passing the bow back to him. “Yes, you are. I’d like to see you shoot again.”

Kili feels light. He runs to retrieve the arrow and can’t seem to stop himself from grinning when he settles back into position. His hands are shaking, his heart pounding hard in his chest. 

When he glances back towards Thorin, this time, his Uncle is smiling. 

 

Fili is nineteen, and it’s his fault when Kili nearly drowns.

Kili is not a strong swimmer. Fili knows this, but he also knows that Kili _can_ swim –just not for a very long time. He knows that Kili is light on his feet and that Kili is quick, so when he jabs his brother in the ribs with his elbow, pointing to a low hanging apple and the narrow bridge of rocks dotted across the river that Kili would have to cross to retrieve it, Fili doesn’t for a moment think that something may go wrong.

Thorin is off in the forest behind them, setting up traps for rabbits and foxes. Fili and Kili are meant to be helping.

Kili is very easy to bait. Fili only has to encourage him a little, only has to _imply_ that he may not be able to do something to have Kili darting forwards to prove him wrong.

The river runs fast and the stones are slick with water, but Kili hops across them with ease. He balances on one foot, twirls his arms about in an exaggerated motion, teetering back and forth as he pretends to lose his balance. Fili hides his laughter behind his hand and calls out to Kili to get on with it.

It’s only when Kili reaches for the apple that his footing slips. 

He tumbles into the water with a yelp, and Fili starts laughing openly, pressing his hands to his knees and snickering until he looks back up and realizes that his brother is not sputtering to the surface, is not glaring at him from the opposite shore.

Fili licks his lips, pulling himself up to his full height. “Kili?”

Kili only resurfaces for a moment. His hair is in his face, and he makes a blind grab for the rock he tumbled from before being sucked back down into the river. 

The apple bobs along downstream, forgotten.

Fili is screaming for Thorin before his feet even touch the water. The river is cold, so much colder than Fili had thought it would be. He’s in up to his knees but he can’t see Kili anywhere.

“Kili! Kili, I swear if this is a joke, I’ll—” 

A thin, white hand breaches the surface and then disappears back beneath it.

Fili starts forward but Thorin is grabbing the back of his collar and throwing him towards the grassy shoreline, telling him to stay put. Fili stumbles against the stones, his hand falling atop the sheath and sword Thorin had dropped before dashing into the river. 

Fili watches as Thorin rushes forward, throwing the furs from his shoulders. He’s still wearing his boots, the one with iron caps covering the toes, and Fili knows that Thorin sometimes keeps knives hidden beneath his tunic, that his leather bracers are plated with metal. Even without the drag of his sword and outer-layers, Thorin hardly seems able to stay afloat once his feet can no longer touch the river-bottom, and in a horrifying instant Fili understands that Thorin could die, that Kili could already—

Thorin struggles on. He spits out water from his mouth and shakes the hair from his face, diving beneath the surface twice before coming back up with an arm hooked around Kili’s waist. Kili coughs and grabs at Thorin wildly, digging his fingers into his shirt, and Fili can hear Thorin telling him to clam down, breathe, I have you.

Together, they slowly make their way back to shore.

“What happened?” Thorin asks, his voice choked and ragged. Kili tries to speak around his hacking coughs, and Thorin places a hand on his back, hushing him. He looks towards Fili.

“It’s my fault,” Fili says. He feels hollowed out, like he’s going to be sick. “I told him to do it.”

Thorin’s eyes blaze. He looks down at Kili, patting him between the shoulders softly until his coughing slows and his breathing settles. 

“Good lad,” he says, and stands.

He grabs Fili by the throat of his shirt, shaking him, nearly lifting him straight off his feet as he screams into his face: “You stupid _child_!”

“I—I didn’t think—”

“That much you’ve made clear! Did you not for a moment consider—” Thorin’s fingers tighten, twisting against Fili’s collar until he can barely breathe. “Would you have your Mother robbed of one of her sons as well as her husband? Is that what you wanted?”

“N-no, I—”

Thorin has never struck him before, but for a moment Fili is afraid that he might. Thorin’s face is flushed with anger, his breaths coming out quick and hard. The hand at Fili’s throat is _shaking_ with restraint.

Kili is telling Thorin to stop, that he’s fine, but Thorin doesn’t take his eyes off of Fili.

Fili’s throat aches and his eyes sting. He’s tries say more but it all comes out as a sob. 

Thorin shakes him, hard enough that Fili’s teeth clack together. “What was that, boy?”

Fili tries to say that he’s sorry, that he knows he’s supposed to take care of Kili and he didn’t mean for that to happen and it was just supposed to be a stupid _game_!

Some of it must get out, because Thorin says, “I don’t care if that’s all it was. You should have known better. ”

Thorin let’s go of his collar and goes to retrieve his sheath and damp cloak from the riverside. Fili slips in the mud but doesn’t fall, resisting the urge of bring his hand up to rub at his neck. 

Fili watches Thorin’s back, the tight line of his shoulders, and he can’t remember if he’s ever cried in front of his Uncle before. His chest and cheeks grow hot and he scrubs at his face furiously, biting down hard on his lip. His nose is running and pathetic little whimpers keep trying to drag their way pass his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself to stop stop _stop_ , but the tears keep coming, even when Kili nudges his arm and tells him it’s okay. 

Thorin comes back, and doesn’t pause for a moment before he palms the back of Fili’s neck, tugging him close until his brow bumps against Thorin’s chest. Kili is pulled in next to his brother, Thorin’s hand tangled in his messy, wet hair. 

Fili is suddenly aware of how tight Thorin’s breathing has turned, of the quickly beating heart beneath his cheek. 

It occurs to him that Thorin is not as angry as he is afraid. 

“Sorry,” Fili mutters against Thorin’s shirt.

“’s fine,” Kili says again. 

Thorin’s silence remains, his fingers tightening in Fili’s hair.

 

(Later, Thorin takes Fili aside. He tells him, “I need you to be better than this,” plainly and without any of his former softness or rage.

Somehow, his apathy only stings worse.

Fili nods, looking at his feet. “I know.”

“You had best,” Thorin says, and that’s the end of it.

It takes years for Fili to learn that while he can improve, he can never quite be his Uncle.)

 

Kili is twenty-one the first time he kisses a girl. It’s a young woman from Dunland with long, dark eyelashes and red-gold hair. She tells Kili that he doesn’t look much like a dwarf, but says it kindly, like it’s interesting but not something that really matters. She blushes when she admits to liking the light dusting of stubble across his cheeks, and laughs when Kili responds by burying his face against her soft, white throat. 

Her Father finds them huddled behind a bale of hay, and Kili is forced to flee or risk being skewered by a pitch-fork. He waves to the girl while looping around her Father’s outstretched arms, and she giggles at him from behind one hand and waves back with the other.

Kili thinks of her for the next two days, smiling to himself and sighing. Fili keeps casting him amused looks, asking now and again what he’s so happy about. Kili only smirks and shrugs at him in response.

It all becomes less pleasant when the girl’s older brother and his two of his friends catch Kili the next time he tries to sneak onto the farm. Kili is quick and Kili has become much better with a sword, but he is weapon-less just then and still little more than a boy. 

The farmer’s son is tall and heavy, made strong from working the land. He tackles Kili to the ground and hauls him back up by his hair when he tries to scramble free. 

To call it a fight would be unfair. Kili escapes with a split lip and sprained ankle, with bruises lining his chest and stomach and his knuckles scrapped raw. The boys call him club-footed and dirt born, say that it’s a shame he has no real beard for them to shave.

“Are you sure he even is a dwarf?” One of the boys asks, peering closely at Kili’s face.

“Of course he is, just look at his feet!”

Kili’s boots and socks are stripped away, and for some reason the boys laugh uproariously at Kili’s naked feet. Kili knows his feet are large, larger probably than the feet of most grown Men, but he has no idea why such a thing is so funny.

Kili manages to run away as they laugh. He cuts through the forest and his bare feet begin to bleed like the rest of him, sharp twigs digging at his toes and heels no matter how carefully he tries to step around them. He approaches the house from the front, and his stomach sinks when he emerges from the trees and spots Thorin sitting on the porch, pipe at his mouth. 

Kili pauses, but Thorin lifts his head and it’s too late for him to retreat now. 

He leaves a spattered trail of blood behind him and his ankle aches fiercely as he walks. Kili tries to hide the limp as he moves closer towards the house, but Thorin has always had sharp eyes. He’s standing after Kili has taken three steps, and moving towards him before Kili manages a forth. 

When Thorin reaches him he doesn’t say a word. He places a hand on Kili’s shoulder and tucks the other beneath his chin, tilting his face up and turning it towards the light of the setting sun.

“Uncle—” Kili is saying. “ _Thorin_ , don’t, I’m fine—”

“Be quiet,” Thorin tells him, his voice rough and low. “What happened?”

“You just told me to be quiet.”

Thorin stares at him, his eyes sharp, his fingers curling tightly against Kili’s shoulder. Kili flushes and mumbles an apology, turning his face away from Thorin’s hand. 

“Tell me,” Thorin says.

And so Kili does. He tells Thorin about the farmer’s daughter, about her angry Father and her brother and her brother’s jeering friends. The more he speaks the hotter the back of his neck becomes and the heavier the stone in his stomach sits. Shame bites into him and locks its jaws shut, and Kili is already waiting for Thorin to tell him that he should have known better, that there are reasons dwarves don’t get themselves mixed up with the affairs of Men, that he should take this beating as a lesson.

Thorin says none of these things. He sighs heavily, easing his grip on Kili’s shoulder without letting him go. When Kili stop talking, Thorin wraps an arm around him fully and directs him towards the house.

Kili plants his heels into the dirt, wincing as he does so.

“I didn’t— I don’t want Mom to know.”

“There’s no hiding it, Kili.”

“She’ll worry. She’ll be upset.”

“Very. But she is your Mother, and that is her right. Come.”

Fili is on his feet the moment they step into the kitchen, his pipe clattering against the table. Thorin tells him to find some bandages, and Fili rushes off to do so without a word.

He returns with Mother at his heels, and Kili shifts in his chair when she pales at the sight of him. She takes his face in her hands much like Thorin did, though her fingers are softer, her touch lingering over the welt by his eye, and asks who did this to him.

Again, Kili explains. Fili gives him a damp cloth to press against the corner of his lips.

“I can’t see her again, can I?” Kili asks. 

Mother smiles at him sadly. “It would be best if you didn’t.”

Thorin hasn’t spoken since entering the kitchen. He tends to Kili’s feet in silence and motions for him to lift up his shirt. Kili sighs and does so, clenching his jaw when Thorin presses at the bruises blooming across his ribs.

“Broken?” Mother asks.

Thorin shakes his head, and it’s only when he stands and brushes his hair aside does Kili realize how upset Thorin truly is.

Kili has seen Thorin angry. Thorin’s wrath burns in him like glowing embers, their heat kept low at times but never fully extinguished. And he’s angry now, but it’s a different kind of fury, quiet and still and very, very cold. 

Mother notices as well. She draws her hand down the back of Kili’s neck before moving towards her brother.

“Thorin,” she says.

Thorin stands. “I’ll be back by morning.”

Fili moves to his feet and Kili calls at his Uncle’s retreating back, but it’s Mother who follows Thorin out and begins arguing with him on the front porch. 

Fili catches his brother eye, tilting his head towards the window, and together they peek through the gap in the curtains. Thorin and their Mother are dark silhouettes against the reddening sky. Their voices begin as low, indiscernible whispers, but steadily rise in volume until Kili can make out the words.

Thorin says, “You mean to let this stand?”

“I mean to stop _you_ from making matters worse.”

“They—”

“You do not live here, Thorin! You can’t—what happens when the farmer starts telling stories? First of a dwarf trespassing onto his property, trying to steal his daughter away, and then of another beating his son half to death?”

“They have no right to—”

“Do you think who we are matters at all to them?”

Thorin makes a disgusted sound and turns from her. Mother grabs for his arm and he shakes her off so violently that she nearly falls.

“Dis—” He says, moving back towards her, and she strikes him across the face with back of her hand.

The crack is loud on the night air, and everything goes suddenly still.

“They’re not your sons,” Mother says.

Thorin is tall for a dwarf. He is broad and strong with large hands. Mother barely reaches his shoulder, and yet he seems cowed before her now, his shoulders hitched upwards, his head tilted down.

“I’m aware of that,” he says. 

Mother wrings her hands together, but her voice doesn't waver. “I’m not trying to be cruel.” 

“I know. You’re never cruel.” Thorin turns from her. “Go back inside and see to your lads.”

“Thorin.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Dis. Give me a moment to clear my head.”

Kili doesn’t see Thorin again until the next morning. His hands are clean of fresh bruises or blood, and Kili thinks he looks almost apologetic when he catches his eye. 

 

Twenty-seven, and Fili is restless.

By thirty his Uncle was leading troops into battle. He was heralded as a King-to-be and war hero, named Oakenshield and given the weight of their people’s plight to carry and hold and fix. 

Fili very much doubts his legacy will be as impressive.

He is beginning to doubt that his legacy will be any concern at all to his people, at this point.

Again and again, Thorin visits and leaves. He brings with him money and tools, swords crafted by his own hand. He departs well-fed and strong but arrives back at their door months later strung-out and exhausted. There is dirt beaten into the lines of his hands, so ingrained that it doesn’t wash away no matter how hard Thorin scrubs.

Thorin has never seemed weak to Fili, but there are moments when he is clearly so, so tired, and Fili doesn’t understand how Thorin pushes himself to keep going when it seems like there is nothing more he would rather do than fall to the ground and just _stop_. 

There is a morning that when Thorin leaves, Fili follows, and Thorin ignores him for nearly an hour before halting at the side of the road.

“Go home, Fili.”

“No.” Fili crosses his arms. He waits until Thorin turns to face him before continuing. “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m old enough now. I need to find better work than the bloody mines.”

“Old enough?” Thorin drops his pack to the ground behind him with a roll of his shoulder. He stalks towards Fili, taking his chin in hand and tilting his face upwards.

“Hmm, yes, I think in the next few years you may even have enough of a beard to braid.”

Fili clenches his jaw and shoves his Uncle’s arm away. Thorin offers him no resistance, no look of offense or surprise. 

“Having a short beard, of all things, doesn’t make me a child.”

“No, it’s running away from home behind the back of your Mother that makes you a child.”

“I told Kili. He’ll—”

“And your brother thought your decision wise?”

Fili says nothing. Thorin snorts.

“As I thought. You still have more than a decade before you come of age, Fili.”

“Men consider as young as twenty to be—”

“I do not care how old the world of Men thinks you are!” Thorin snaps, his patience finally wearing thin. “Your place is here, and that’s where you’ll stay. You will take care of your Mother and your brother—”

“They don’t _need_ to be taken care of! They’re fine! Why do I—”

“Because I cannot!” 

Thorin’s hands are curled into fists. He’s close enough to grab Fili, but doesn’t.

(Fili thinks of Thorin seizing him by the throat, and forces himself to roll back his shoulders, to meet his Uncle’s eyes.)

“I _can’t_ ,” Thorin says again, quieter now, his eyes turning soft and sad. “Do you understand?”

“You could,” Fili says, and suddenly it all dawns on him. “You could stay.”

Thorin stares at him.

“You don’t—” Fili runs a hand through his hair, pulling at his braids. “I’m happy. Kili is happy. Mom is, even. Not all the time, but. Mostly. You—you should just _stay_ , if that’s what you want.” 

Thorin blinks at him slowly. He opens his mouth to answer, but then seems to think better of it, closing his jaw with a click of his teeth. 

He shakes himself before turning away. 

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he says. “I have greater responsibilities than that.”

Fili wants to grab Thorin, to spin him back around and scream at him. He wants to tell Thorin that there doesn’t have to be mountain anymore, a legacy to sustain or a crown to dig up. Thorin is a King of ashes and dust and yet acts as though he’s carrying Erebor itself atop his shoulders. Fili wants to tell Thorin that it’s ruining him, that Fili can see it more and more clearly each time Thorin drags himself through their front door.

_Does Erebor matter so much,_ Fili wonders. _Does the shame of not having it outweigh the things you_ could _have?_

But Fili drops his eyes and holds his tongue. He grinds his teeth and swallows and doesn’t say _I admire you more than anyone but I don’t think I’d ever want to be a King if it means being like you._

Thorin bends to retrieve his belongings. When he straightens his shoulders are stiff, and Fili expects that to be the end of it, for Thorin to tell him to go home again and then stomp off down the road without another word. 

Instead, Thorin comes back. He reaches for Fili, his hand folding over the curve of his shoulder, and softly knocks their foreheads together. It’s a strange but familiar gesture, one that Fili has seen passed between Balin and Dwalin. Mother has explained it as being a bit like a hug, but Fili knows that’s not quite right, that Thorin has embraced him before and is not doing so now for a reason. The press of his head against Fili’s hair means something, and Fili aches with the realization that he knows too little of his own culture to understand what.

“I’ll be back within the year,” Thorin promises. 

 

Kili is thirty-three when his entire life is packed away into a carriage and dragged off to a new home behind a great draft horse. Kili is more familiar with ponies or mules and has never seen such a large horse before. Its mane hangs over its eyes and its feet are shaggy and Fili can’t stop laughing at his brother’s fascination with the beast. 

Thorin and Dwalin meet them halfway, their own supplies slung over a single pony. Dwalin walks by Mother and starts to sing loudly when Fili and Kili grow weary and fall quiet. Thorin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, but never actually tells Dwalin to stop.

They sleep that night in view of the Blue Mountains. Kili thinks that if Thorin had a choice in the matter they would press on, but Mother is tired and Thorin is rarely willing to argue with her. She laughs at the face Thorin makes when she suggests setting up camp for the night, telling him the mountains will still be there in the morning.

Kili takes it upon himself to catch dinner, and has shot three rabbits within the hour. Thorin hunkers down next to him by the fire and tells him how to cook the rabbits properly without embarrassing him.

“So,” Kili says, turning the spit. “This is home now?”

He nods towards the Blue Mountains in the distance, and Thorin follows his gaze.

“For now,” Thorin corrects, but he’s smiling a little. 

“It’s big,” Kili says, at a loss for something else to comment on.

Thorin snorts, shaking his head. His hair has been pulled back into a thick braid, and only a few wispy strands shift across his face. “Yes.”

“But Erebor is bigger?”

“Much.” Thorin pauses, then and adds, “Had I a choice, I would be leading you there instead.”

Kili shrugs. “This is fine. It’s good, I mean.”

“For now,” Thorin says again. 

Kili sleeps under the stars that night with his back pressed to Fili’s. There are two blankets piled on top of them that they play tug-of-war with until they’re both giggling silently into their bedrolls.

He tells his brother about his conversation with their Uncle, and Fili sighs.

“What?” Kili asks. 

“It will never be enough, not until he has Erebor.”

“You should want Erebor too, you know. You’re the heir.”

Fili rolls his shoulder, knocking it against Kili’s. “You don’t care at all, do you?”

“I used to,” Kili says. “But…”

He trails off, thinking, and Fili kicks at him until he continues.

“It’s always been you that Thorin needs.”

Fili shifts next to him, tugging the blanket up to his chin. “He doesn’t prefer me, you know.”

“But you’re still more important. It’s fine, Fili. I’m not mad about it.”

“So you don’t want to see Erebor?”

“Do you?”

“I do, but… not like Thorin does.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“You didn’t answer,” Fili says.

Kili yawns. “It’s important to Thorin. And to Mom. But, well, we’ve only ever been told about it, haven’t we? I just… I almost can’t imagine it being real, anymore.”

Fili makes a small sound, more in acknowledgement than agreement.

They wake before dawn to a light layer of snow coating their blankets and their breaths misting on the air. Thorin passes his sister a thick scarf and gives both of his nephews a cut of dried meat before they set out on the road again. The sun rises behind the Blue Mountains, cradled in the alcove between them before lifting into the sky. It makes their bases glow orange and their white peaks glitter. Kili has to admit: it’s a pretty sight, and he likes that it makes Mother smile.

It begins to snow again as they enter the ravine that will lead them towards the gate, and Kili notices thin veins of silver and iron spreading through the walls of stone. He touches one, following it upwards until he can no longer reach, and for some reason this makes Thorin laugh – a great, booming sound that seems to startle Fili. Thorin’s eyes are blue and gleaming, his teeth flashing white behind his beard, and Kili wonders what Thorin would be like if they were walking towards Erebor instead, if this easy humour would hold or if he’d take on the more solemn, proper stance of a King.

“Kili,” Fili calls to him. “Come here, walk beside me.”

“What, do you want me to hold your hand?” Kili asks, but he catches up to his brother anyways. Fili punches his shoulder and points to the ground ahead, where the packed dirt beneath their feet turns to stone and then, further down the road, to steel.

“Let’s enter at the same time,” Fili says. 

They take care to match their steps, and though it makes Dwalin roll his eyes and Mother snort, no one tells them to stop acting childish. Kili and his brother breach the boarders of the Blue Mountains together, and ahead of them Thorin pauses before the gate, the heel of his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, waiting for his family even as his eyes gaze forward into the gaping abyss of the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't quite make it to forty years, but hey. All mistakes are my own. Thanks for reading, my dears.


End file.
